Paul Revere , Johnny Kelley, William Dawes, Bill Rodgers, Battle Road, Heartbreak Hill … the list is endless. As Gertrude Stein implies, years must pass for history to form in our minds. Today, 228 years after the Shot Heard Round the World, and 106 after the first running of the Boston Marathon, both events have developed rich histories. Fittingly, the two are celebrated on the same day every April.

Patriot’s Day has the odd distinction of being recognized by only two groups of people: New Englanders and marathoners, as thousands of each flock to the greater Boston area to attend Revolutionary War reenactments and to watch the runners, or run themselves.

By 11 a.m. on Patriot’s Day the Lexington town green has already played host to a reenactment of the famous battle of April 19, 1775 that sparked the Revolutionary War. While the reenactors, in their authentic colonist and British soldier garb, have long since finished their faux fight, the 400-plus runners in the 89th Patriots Day Road Race have just ended their battle.

The Newton hills, which will soon be flooded by the second-largest field in Boston Marathon history, are playing host to youth races. Kids of varying ages are sprinting up the hills, past the Johnny Kelley monument, and back down to the finish at City Hall.

Spectators have already begun staking out spots up and down Commonwealth Avenue for the main event. "I have this down to a science," one man said to his wife as he picked out the perfect spot, and settled onto the curb for a nearly three-hour wait until the marathoners would begin going by. The couple would soon be joined by scores of other spectators, many with their radios tuned in to another Patriot’s Day tradition—the Boston Red Sox game, the only on the Major League schedule with a morning start, thus allowing fans to filter out of the park afterwards to catch the runners passing the 25 mile mark.

In the current political climate, many bristle at the common metaphors that link sports and war, but the military and athletic worlds have long been inextricably linked. To try to separate one from the other, on a day that celebrates aspects of both, would be impossible. Probably no greater evidence exists than the numerous flags being waved along the course, some bearing the stars and stripes, others slogans or the sign for peace, and still others simply the names of friends and relatives running the race.

Finally, at noon the screaming of two fighter jets overhead, having just completed their fly-over of Hopkinton, provides a sign that the race is about to begin. The runners, many of whom have been in their corrals for an hour now, are eager to get going, but must be wary of the conditions. The temperature is perfect for the spectators, which means it would be a long day for the runners.

When race day dawned, Rodgers Rop was everyone’s favorite on the men’s side. While he didn’t possess the fasted PR in the field—that distinction belonged to Vincent Kipsos—Rop was a proven commodity in Boston. The same could be said of Margaret Okayo, who defeated two-time champion Catherine Ndereba last year in what American favorite Marla Runyan labeled "one of the greatest [marathons] ever run."

Having won here already, Rop and Okayo seemed far safer bets than anyone else. Boston, after all, has never followed the path of many of the world’s major marathons by tweaking its course to create faster times, providing rabbits for the lead runners, or even, for many years, offering prize money. "I think you can run fast in Boston, I really do," said Runyan, as though she needed to defend her decision to run in the storied race.

Instead, tens of thousands of spectators annually expect to see an unpredictable and exciting race unfold from Hopkinton to Boston, whether they’re watching from their front porch on Heartbreak Hill, their apartment window on Beacon Street, or on television in their suburban living room. The very nature of the course—primarily downhill for 17 miles, then up the famed rises to Heartbreak before descending towards downtown Boston, with a few sneaky inclines in between—discourages anyone from time-trialing to victory. Experience, more often than not, pays off. In fact, the four female champions previous to Okayo all repeated at least once in Boston.

Once the race finally begins, Vincent Kipsos tries his hardest to win from the front, history be damned, but after seizing the lead and being reeled in by the pack on three occasions, he finally falters at half-way, and then drops out altogether.

With 18 miles behind him, Rop still looks great, and is on familiar ground having seized control of the race at roughly the same point last year. Invisible to the spectators, though, is the toll that the course has taken on the defending champ. Invincible on this stretch of road in 2002, Rop has no response when Robert Kipkoech Cheruiyot moves to the front in the 21st mile. While all eyes were on Kipsos in the early going, and Rop in the middle, Cheruiyot had been conserving his energy for a final push. The tactic pays off, as he is the center of attention while flashing the "V" sign as he headed towards Boylston Street and the finish.

The women’s race plays out in a remarkably similar manner, except it is the experienced Boston veteran, Okayo, who tries to run away from the field, only to be passed for the final time on the Newton Hills, just another victim in their long history. Taking advantage of the inclines is Svetlana Zakharova, who like Cheruiyot minutes earlier, charges towards the finish line alone.

Hours after the two new champions have finished, the course is still lined with spectators. As the rest of the field, worn down by the 70 degree heat at the start and the headwind at the finish, trudges towards the finish, they don’t lack encouragement. That crowd, as much as the course and the champions, is part of the history of the Boston Marathon. They’re there every year, to witness the upsets and the records, but more importantly to carry the thousands of runners who will never wear the laurel wreath to personal victories of their own.

One woman who has been carried along by that crowd numerous times—twice to victory—is Joan Benoit Samuelson. Asked what the best part of the historic course is, Benoit recalls the college communities with a twinkle in her eye, surely remembering the receptions she has received so many times at Wellesley College and then Boston College.

In the end, though, no single element can account for Boston’s allure. Not the course, the crowds, nor the elite runners. Instead, it’s an undefinable mix of these that have, over the years, formed what Samuelson calls the "mystique" of Boston.

"Everyone wants to run Boston because it’s Boston," she says, vaguely. But somehow that’s the best way to describe why thousands of people line up in Hopkinton on the third Monday of every April, and why many more line the course to cheer them on.